Kim Possible: Noir
by Fabius Maximus
Summary: Well, the title says it, and this is gonna be fairly dark-- you have been warned.  PG-13 for violence, implied nudity and some themes-- may go up to R, later.
1. Default Chapter

Kim Possible. Liberty Lost

* * *

Authors note:

This is a fairly dark story—you have been warned. It's also written in a different style from my other stories, trying for the whole Noir ambiance, that you got from some of the detective stories of the 1950's. Note that I haven't stopped on Senior Year, but some fairly difficult writing parts are coming up, so I've decided to do a few others. This will be updated…infrequently, as the mood takes me to write it.

I hope you like it, and let me know if the writing style works.

Thanks!

* * *

_Jack _

When you're a reporter, you get to go to some damned strange places… if you're lucky. More often then not, you end up going to depressing, miserable, and boring places.

Like here. Booty Barn the sign said—well actually the sign says: Bot Bar, since nobody's bothered to fix the lights since they were installed. The clientele knows what's in here, and that's what counts.

So, right now, here I am, Jack Carstairs, tracking a story down. It involves a city councilman who just got up that morning to declare "women's liberation day" and is right now trying to stuff 20 dollar bills in the cleavage of the lap dancer while drunkenly telling his friends how if you give 'em a special day, the bitches will do anything you want.

Sigh. And people wonder why my profession ends up cynical. Well, I'm certain that when he's sober, he'll be able to think of lots of ways to explain away this story…and probably stay in office too. Like I said, cynical.

So now the main dancers for the evening are coming out. This ain't no high class joint, and it's not a place where college girls looking to supplement their income go either. This is mainly for over the hill dancers who never made the big time, underage dancers feeding habits, and girls who are wondering how the hell their life turned out like this. As long as you don't look at the eyes, you can miss the weariness, and the despair. Most of the guys here aren't bothering with the eyes. They'll get their fill, go home and then if they see them on the street, snub them.

Yep, there they are, doing the pole dance, trying to get money…one in particular. Hell. She's good. Pretty too, even under all that obvious make up. What is she doing in a place like this?

I always look at the eyes. I'm a reporter, and the eyes say a lot. So I'm sitting there, while everyone else is hooting, or making jokes about how the best dancer is the skinniest one, or wondering aloud if she offers other services…and then I look into a pair of green eyes. They're tired, hopeless. But I've seen them before. And that brings up a question.

What the hell is a missing girl doing dancing here? OK, that's not the question, lots of missing persons end up in places like this.

The real question is what the hell is _Kim Possible_ doing dancing here?

* * *

_Kim:_

God I hate this. There are times when I wonder if it would be such a bad thing, to go back and take the gun I have in my room, put it to my mouth, and blow my brains out. It would be fast, wouldn't it? I mean, God would cut me a break… even if nobody else does.

Shut up, Kim. Don't think. Remember that you're not even Kim anymore—you're Klara Prentice. Kim's dead. Kim would turn red at the thought of being seen naked like this, to say nothing of dancing for these sick bastards. Klara does what she needs to do to make money. You don't have a high school diploma, and you can _never_ let yourself get listed in any database, so it has to be cash, and this beats prostitution.

I wonder if any of my fans believe I'm still a virgin?

Finish the number, and leave out the back door. Let the other girls do the lap dances. I have enough money for the day. I'll only have to shower for an hour tonight.

If I do a lap dance I'm in the showerfor hours trying to forget the feel of their hands all over me.

In the "dressing room," which is really a closet that got remodeled in this fire trap, I throw a pair of shorts and a t-shirt on, and over that my old coat. I'm sweaty from the lights so I'm not going to bother putting on anything else until I get home.

Home. There's a joke.

At least the rest of the dancers are keeping the crowd busy. No idiots trying to stop me, so I'm on the ten-speed and out of the parking lot, leaving this dump behind me. Until tomorrow night, that is.

* * *

_Jack_

I'm out of the bar, and there she goes, like a bat out of hell. The more I look, the more I'm convinced. Kim Possible, former Teen Age hero who took a fall, big time. I call up my mental rolodex, and remember, one year ago, when her partner was arrested for drug smuggling, and she was implicated for that bombing down south that took out 40 people. I wonder if she was surprised how fast everyone turned on her? I didn't do the story, but I remember Tom telling me just before he retired that you couldn't find a single person in the U.S. who had a nice thing to say about her. He always figured she'd taken off to Japan, or England, or some place like that where they were at least giving her the benefit of a doubt. So did, I—I mean, she didn't even show up for her parents divorce and what went down there, and I know that Tom had spent a few months haunting the Supermax Prison… figuring that she might visit her friend, but no joy there either. His second thought was that one day someone would find a body in the wilderness, and we'd write a follow up explaining how Kim Possible took a .38 express to the afterlife.

Looks like we were all wrong.

I don't follow her. Nope, that's for amateurs. I go talk to the bars owner. He's a fat, miserable excuse for a human being, because I _know_ that some of those dancers can't be over 16, to say nothing of the 17 year old I'm interested in. He's probably paying some money to the cops, and in any case, that's not my story.

"Sorry buddy." He says, "the dancers homes are off limits." I slide him a C note. He frowns, and I add two more to it. Those vanish into a pocket on a shirt that is stretched over a body that's had too many beers and not enough exercise…or showers. Then I get an apartment address, after hinting that there might be more in it for him.

Like a dump truck when he's crossing the street, if there's a god.

I take the slow route. She's on a bike, and I'm in a car. I want to give her time to stop and eat, because if there's one thing a fugitive doesn' t like to see, it's someone lounging around their front door when they do get back. An hour should do it.

And there it is. An apartment building that saw its last good day around the time that the first Cro-Magnon was looking for a classier place than the cave with those noisy bears next door. Room 23 he said, and I walk up, ignoring the busted intercom, and the smell of urine and the junkie talking to himself on the stairs. I don't ignore the hole in the middle of the walkway, and I find myself at room 23, where I see a door with the charming patch in the middle that tells me, that yes, this complex has hosted visits from the Local SWAT team more than once, and they had to use the universal method of opening a door someone wants to keep closed.

I walk up to the door, and knock on it. I wait, and knock again.

"I don't want it!" An annoyed voice shouts through the door.

"I'm not here to sell anything." There's a pause.

"That asshole sold you my address, didn't he?" I pause, and decide on truth.

"Yeah, he did."

"Well, I think you should understand something—the names Klara Prentice, not "cheap slut." I dance, I don't turn tricks, for you, or anyone else, so why don't you just go away."

"OK." I say, "After you tell me one thing."

"What?" the voice is tired, angry.

"Why Kim Possible is doing dirty dances in a place like this."

There's a silence…for a _long_ time. The sound of a sliding bolt. The door opens and a pair of green eyes are looking at me. But you know, for once I'm not looking at the eyes.

I'm looking at the 9mm automatic in her hand. The one pointed right at my torso.

Oh Crap.

* * *

_Kim:_

Who is this? Who _is_ this? A police officer? No…he can't be. I'm dangerous, remember? If they knew who I was they'd be coming in the windows with a SWAT team. More likely, they'd just arrange a little auto "accident" when I was bycicling to work one day.

He's at least 60, a little overweight, African American. Snow white hair, and he isn't leering at me.

Of course that might have something to do with the gun I'm holding on him. Kim Possible would do the karate thing—Klara will blow your damned head off and don't think I won't.

"Get in here." I say, and back off from the door, as he walks in. If he moves to attack, I'm putting five in that gut, and when he falls down, another two in his head for good measure. He walks in and sits down on my couch—the one with the busted springs, which explains why it sags so alarmingly.

"Nice couch." He says, "Got anything to drink?"

"Shut up." I tell him, making a gesture with the gun for good measure. "Who the hell are you?"

"Jack Carstairs," He says, "I'm a reporter with the State Times."

A reporter. Oh God no. I look around at the room, asking how fast can I be packed and do I have enough money to leave…maybe finally make the decision, take a bus down to California or New Mexico and make it across the border to Mexico. If I tie him up I'll have at least a few hours head start and then-

"I haven't told anyone." He said, "I wasn't even there looking for you…but well, I have a pretty good memory for people."

"Then maybe I should just shut you up now." I tell him, holding the gun on him.

* * *

_Jack:_

I got her just out of the shower, I can see… she's wearing one of those fluffy robes, hair up in a towel, and has a pair of bunny slippers on. They don't go with the gun. The room is… well, clean, I'll grant her that. Sagging roof, stains on the wall—but it's swept and neat…almost like a hotel room. Sterile—a place where you sleep, not live. I can see behind her into the bedroom, which is just as sterile, except for some stuffed animal on the pillow. One of those ridiculous cuddle buddies. Hers?

She's scrubbed her face clean of all the makeup and I realize why she wore it in the first place—no way could _anyone_ mistake her for anything but a teenager right now.

"You know, " I say, "Most women wear make up to make them look _younger_."

She doesn't flinch, but I see her scrubbed face redden slightly.

"Well, I like the old look." She says, "Maybe you should think about convincing me not to shoot you."

"I don't think you would. Kim Possible didn't kill people."

"Forty people might disagree with you."

"Maybe. Did you kill them?" That gun is wavering…but I'm a fat sixty year old who smokes and doesn't exercise. I don't think I'm going to try my luck at taking a gun away from someone who used to spar with ninjas. No way.

"That's what the news says." Kim says. "That's what everyone on the street believes, that Ron had a side business smuggling drugs and I set half of my jobs up for publicity's sake." She pauses, "They even have money transfers, remember?"

I nod, finding out that Kim Possible had a cool 4 million in a bank account, of money last traced to the biggest cocaine smuggling ring in Columbia…hadn't gone over well.

"You haven't answered my question." I say, "did you do it?" Fury touches her eyes, and I realize that I may be saying hi to my wife in the next few seconds. She always did say I didn't know when to stop. Kim's fingers on the gun have gone white, she's clenching it so tightly.

"No." She snarls and falls back in the only chair in the room, next to a table that looks to be about ready to give up the ghost. "No. So go off and write your story about the unrepentant criminal who still won't own up to her crime. I won't be here when you get back." She tries for pissed, but it doesn't work. Her voice only sounds defeated.

"What if I'm more interested in finding out why you didn't do it…and why everyone thinks you _did_ do it?" I say. "could be a Pulitzer in that."

"Or a grave." Kim says, "I already talked to a reporter, before Ron pled guilty…he ended up getting hit by a car. Dead, so sad." She leans back. "Of course, that was right before Ron got all those pictures of his house and parents…all times of the day and night."

"And he didn't?"

"Didn't what? Go yell to the guard that was the only person who could have delivered them? His lawyer? Ask to see mom and dad and let them know they might be dead in the next few weeks?" The guns' wavering in her hands, but I could care less. I'm a reporter, and I know truth and this is the truth. "He took the deal, pled out, told everyone that I _had _known about the bomb, and the money… and then went to jail. Not life, I have to give 'em that. Just 50 years, assuming good behavior. Ron'll be able to say hi to a room without bars in 2056."

"And he sol-" The gun's back up in my face.

"Don't you dare…" Kim's voice is trembling, "Say that. He didn't sell me out. He saved his family. He saved his family and went to jail…if anything, I sold _him_ out."

_To be continued._


	2. Chapter II

_Chapter II

* * *

_

_Jack: _

"Oh?" I ask. My voice is steady, even though the barrel of the gun looks big enough to drive a 57 Chevy down. "Really? He had a pound of Columbian white in his locker…drug residue all over his house, and then he turned states evidence to the Grand Jury to get you indicted."

"He didn't have a choice." She says, "I knew that he was never involved…. But nobody would believe me, and when Mr. Hendricks decided to check on his own…he died." She pauses, "And that day he told me he was bringing information…and guess what?"

"The car crashed and burned, and nothing was left." I wonder what my smile looks like to her. "I did some investigative reporting on the mob in the 70's—lots of people developed health problems, or bad luck with cars back then, as well." I look at her, "Are you going to shoot me? Because I'm getting awful tired of that thing in my face." She goes back to her seat, and sits down. She isn't pointing the gun at me, but it's in her lap, with her hand still around the grip.

"So you believe me?" She asks.

"I believe something is screwy…but let's stay on track…how did you sell _him_ out?" Now she can't meet my eyes. Not at all.

"I promised him I wouldn't stop until he got out." She says, and her voice is a whisper. "I swore it."

"And then?" I ask.

"That's when they pinned that bombing on me." Kim isn't looking at anything in the room. "I had been putting beacons out for Global Justice…they said they were for detecting anyone moving around…but one of them was a bomb. Maybe Drakken or someone else switched it, but then it went off…and all those people died." She hunches in on herself.

"But that wasn't the worst…then they came and took Jim and Tim away—said mom and dad were too dangerous to have them, since they'd let me run wild…they did all those exposes… everything I had ever said they twisted…" She lets go of the gun, but I could care less. I've seen it before—you have to tell someone. I've seen it in people being led to execution and people on their death beds…and in a one time cheerleader and hero, and current stripper in a dingy little room, with the sound of a pair of junkies fighting over a joint outside the window.

"Then there was the money in the account—I never had that account… I mean, why would I get a part time job at a fast food place if I had _four million_ dollars?"

"Maybe your boyfriend had something to do with it?" I say, "Getting up in front of a Grand Jury and saying, 'Kim Possible helped me hide the coke, and timed missions so we could move it..' That's pretty damming." Kim nods, and I'm surprised. Usually knives in the back make for bad feelings. She doesn't show it…or at least the pools of water in those huge eyes aren't from anger.

"He had to, you see? They didn't say it, but it was plain—say it or his parents would die… I mean they had pictures of his dad, his mom…._everywhere_." Now she looks desperate. "It was the plan, see? I had time between the indictment and the trial, and I'd break it right open!"

"Didn't work, did it." I reply.

"No." She whispers. "Right after the Grand Jury, they moved me to a…juvenile hall. I couldn't do anything…it was…" She pauses. "If you talked back, they beat you, if you tried to do anything, they beat you…sometimes they beat you because they just liked it. But that didn't stop me."

"What did?" I say. The gun falls, unnoticed to the floor, and thank god it didn't go off, as Kim walks into the bedroom and grabs that stuffed animal and holds it to herself. Nothing else in here, I see…was that the one thing she grabbed? The one thing she has? I don't know. Some questions even reporters don't ask.

"They showed how they could get to dad and mom…the money laundering case…then that inquiry at the hospital…" Her eyes are squeezed shut, her breath coming fast… "Then they kept at mom and dad, and wouldn't stop until mom…until mom had her nervous breakdown and-" she doesn't go on, but I do.

"And tried to commit suicide." I say, "And then let me guess, your dad divorced her, for a lot of reasons…not the least of which was a little bird told him it was the only way he could get the twins back…ever."

"I don't know." She says, eyes still shut. "I wasn't around for that… I knew then, see, that I was just a stupid little girl…and I couldn't save Ron, I couldn't even save myself… so I broke my promise. The night they told me about mom, I broke out of the place, and I _didn't_ try and find information… I went right back home, and grabbed" her arms tightened, "this, and the emergency cash Dad and Mom kept around, and I ran. I didn't stop running until I came here, because I figured that if the bar's using underage dancers, nobody's going to turn me in." Her voice gets soft that I can barely hear it. "And I left Ron alone…."

* * *

_Kim:_

I should keep my eyes open. The gun's on the floor, and he could be holding it right now, for all I care. But would it really be that big of a deal? If he shoots me, maybe it just finishes what started a year ago…

"So." he says, "Who do you think did this?" I blink. He's not laughing, or telling me to stop trying to spread blame like everyone else did. I…

"You _believe_ me?" I ask. He nods.

"Kid… I'm old. Everyone else you talk about, your generation, they talk about the government as this friendly, cuddly buddy that protects them…even your parents." Now he leans forward. "Well let me tell you something… I was born in 1946… I remember back when the government _wasn't_ your friend, and walking into the wrong part of town could get you lynched…or executed if you tried to defend yourself." Now he looks down. "And I remember when news reporters did something about it, instead of getting up in front of a TV camera with their botox, reading what the advertisers want everyone to hear. People don't want to hear bad news, now…not about what counts. I think you were railroaded…because I'm 60 years old, and I have a feeling about these things, and it's going off right now." I open my eyes and look at him. He _is_ old…but his eyes are meeting mine squarely, and I suddenly wonder what he thinks of a quitter like me. Somehow he knows, I don't know how, but he knows.

"You were screwed from the beginning." He says, "Anyone with four million dollars could have had you both killed anytime they wanted to—they didn't. They wanted you discredited…destroyed." He grins, at me, "So who did you piss off?"

"_Nobody!"_I almost scream. "I've don't know who… I mean yeah, Drakken and all the others, but they didn't gloat, and I think they would." I see Jack blink.

"They haven't done _anything_ of late." He says. "That could be a point." Then he's looking at me.

"OK, Kid…truth time. You've pissed off someone very, very powerful. You stay here, then I guess you won't be found—maybe they don't care anymore…maybe you're just under their radar." He pauses, "But if you get back in the game…then all bets are off—they won't ever forget you after that, and we may have _one_ shot—miss and we're dead."

"Why would you be interested?" I ask.

"Pulitzer?" He says, and then his face gets a lot more serious, "Or maybe I'm sick of sitting in joints like the Booty Barn, listening to guys joke about screwing their own supporters, and writing a story that'll be deep sixed because it doesn't fit the viewing demographic. Maybe I want to do something so big it'll blow the lid off this stinking cesspool…and I have a hunch this might be it."

"But they'll kill you too, won't they?" I point out. He laughs.

"Kid, I smoke, I eat bad, I don't exercise since my stint in Vietnam… and I've used up more luck then any five normal people. They kill me… well, it saves me from the nursing home, at least."

"Why should _I?" _I say, "Like you said, maybe they don't care anymore, and we don't even know who they are."

"That's right." He says, "You can stay here, in these palatial accommodations." I wince, but he isn't through, "But of course, sooner or later, they're going to realize you aren't going anywhere…that their star dancer doesn't have anyplace else to go. Ready to give your boss a blowjob to stay on the docket? What about when he wants something a little extra—maybe for you to give special lap dances behind the stage… Of course, you'll get older," He's looking positively grim, "You'll get wrinkles… and believe me when I say this kid, you can't imagine how _fast_ this sort of life will give them to you." He shrugged, "you don't blush anymore, and the clients don't always like that—they love the idea of thinking that you're still embarrassed…and pretty soon your work day is seeing how many five dollar blow-jobs you can give in the back, and how many days you can go between getting beaten up." He gives a lopsided grin. "See—you're a bit like me. Look me in the face and tell me that you have _so_ much to lose."

He's right. I realize. Maybe I would have died…but I've been dying ever since I ran out on Ron… Sooner or later, if I stay here, I'll keep that thought on the way here, walk in, grab my cuddle buddy, and the gun, and the last thing I'll ever feel is the barrel in my mouth.

"OK." I say, "You're right—If this works, fine…if they kill me…" I pause, and realize that this is the truth, "Fine. Living like this…" I let the sentence trail off. "So…." I ask. "What do we do?"

"Do, kid? First of all, we get out of this dump…then we get some information…" He suddenly gives me a grin that takes off about 30 years.

"And THEN, we go rattle some chains and see what falls out…"

To be continued.


	3. Chapter III

Going to Jail.

* * *

_Jack:_

Of course, it's easier to say you're going to go rattle chains then actually doing it. And if you rattle the wrong chain you may get a safe landing on your head. I look at the kid and she seems a little more determined.

"First thing's first." I tell her. "You got some good clothes?"

"Yeah."

"Get 'em—what about money?"

"About five hundred." I shake my head.

"I'll pull out some more—we may need it." Kim looks over at me, and frowns.

"So where are we going?"

"To the jail where your friend is." She blinks and pales.

"Are you crazy? Won't they know?"

"Yeah, well you're not coming in and I'm not visiting him…I have a friend, he's been there a while…and I drop by now and than—nothing out of the ordinary."

"Would he know about Ron?"

"If it happens in that prison, he knows about it." I tell the kid. She looks dubious. I can figure why, but she needs to understand. "Kid, right now we have one end of this—yours. We need to know Ron's end."

"Will you get him out?" She asks, in a whisper.

"Maybe, but not right now." I tell the truth, "The only way he's getting out of Supermax is if someone lets him out—don't even _think_ about a jailbreak."

"But…"

"No buts, Kid—this ain't some little county jail." I say. "we need to be nice…'an you stay in town, and out of sight. There's a hotel I know on the outskirts by supermax—it's quiet."

"I-"

"Am gonna stay in that hotel, and not poke your nose out. OK?" Kim looks rebellious and I try and remember what it was like to be a teenager. "Trust me, Kim—the guy I know will be able to tell us some stuff."

"What if he's in on it?"

"In on it? _In_ on it?" I can't help myself, I laugh. "Kid, if he's in on it we might as well give up—that means everyone on the planet is, except for you and me, and I wouldn't be too certain about you."

So we drive on it, and I make the reservations, letting the clerk see the female in the car, almost like it was an accident. That way, he figures I'm an old guy screwing around with some teenage lover…so if he sees Kim, he files it and ignores it. If I tried to pretend I was alone and he saw her, thing's might get a little dicey.

I settle Kim in, and we have a last minute talk. I let her know that If I'm not back by tonight, things have gone south—get out. If I call her, and _don't_ ask about the cat, things are bad and she needs to get out—and if she does, go straight for the border and get to Latin America or Europe and never look back.

Then its my turn. I take my car and head to the penitentiary—or the place where they put the living dead, which is what most lifers turn into. The guards know me—because like I told her, I've been here before.

I didn't tell her the reason why I want to talk to Tomas…because we get to walk outside, and not in the meeting room. Being in prison for 45 years gives you a little pull on the inside…and the guards figure that since you're never going to see the outside, they don't' lose anything by letting you take a walk. There's also the little matter that Tom knows more about the prison then the guards or the warden and can calm down—or set off, a riot depending on what he says. Prisoner or no, they don't want to piss him off.

When I get to the courtyard, He's sitting down, smoking a cigarette. He's black like me, but his hair went snow white a long time ago, and he walks with a cane, courtesy of the Ku Klux Klan…and saving a certain stupid black kid who didn't realize that some parts of town you didn't walk in after dark. That's also how he got to be here.

"Hey Big Brother." I say to him.

"Looking good, little brother… well, looking fatter than I remember, but still good." We clasp hands for a minute, talk about the old days, and some of the new days…but I don't have as much time as I want.

"Tom…" I say, "you heard of a kid, Ron Stoppable?"

"He's my cellmate." He says. I blink at the coincidense. Why would Tom have a cellmate?

"Kinda odd…him being white." I say. Sticking with your own in prison is your best chance to have a long life, and while Tom's tolerant—lots of the other blacks aren't.

"He saved a brother…. And we could see someone wanted him dead… _I_ could see it."

"Oh?" I ask.

"When they processed him, they put him in cellblock 4." I guess my confusion shows. Tom continues, "They put a Jewboy in the cellblock that has all the Aryan nation bigwigs in it. Then they told 'em he was a Jewboy." He shook his head, "Pretty hard being alone like that—you're white so the browns and blacks hate you, the Asian's want you dead…and well, you know what the Aryan's think about Jews." I nod. He continues, "But they decided to have a little rape party with a brother who was in here for robbery, and the kid took 'em on—won, too, although it didn't help him when the guards arrived….but I let the warden know that things might not…go so well if he had any unfortunate accidents."

"So they put him with you."

"Figure an old geezer like me could keep him from getting killed." He shrugs, "So far, it's worked. Kid's been railroaded, Jack— just as bad as we were in the old days…maybe worse, because at least they never pretended otherwise with us." Tom starts coughing, and I wait until he's better.

"I know—I'm trying to help him."

"You won't get any help from him.. someone put a powerful scare into him about his folks." He pauses, "Ever so often they take him out for interrogation—not the guards, but some bigwigs who show up…he always comes back in bad shape…_real_ bad shape." He takes a puff on his cigarette. "He won't last much longer…."

"I can't get him out of here…" I say, indicating the cleared kill zone, the guards, the towers.

"That's surely true…" He says, "But like I said, they take him _out_ of the prison to do their little discussions—not all the guards here are crooked." I think about it, then nod.

"I understand." Tom keeps talking,

"You know, Jack… lot of interesting people been turning up dead…you heard about Go-Team?"

"Well, it turns out they were having some sort of meeting at their tower…and BOOM! All gone. Except for the babe with the hands…and she's just vanished." He takes one last drag, "and all of Ron's old enemies…gone…kinda strange that, wouldn't you think? All those times they almost took over the world and then they up and quit when the girl that stopped them is out of circulation?" I nod at that. The guards are still out of earshot, but they're looking at their watches, so the meetings almost over. As I'm turning, Tom takes advantage of the one second no guard can see and hands me his cigarette case. "I paid the guard" He said, "They'll let you take it out, since they only really care about stuff coming in."

"Tom, this is yours…"

"Not for long." He says, "Doc said I have cancer… no special treatments in Jail…so I got a month, maybe two…maybe less if I decide to check out early. " He grins at me, and I try to meet my big brothers grin. Still the same damned devil may care grin… still my big brother. "This was yours—remember the time that we got caught smoking behind the church." I nod. My backside stings in its own memory of that day. He pauses, "I keep my most precious items in it—my good cigarettes, wrapped up in my _good_," He stresses the word, "Paper…don't just smoke 'em." I nod. He pauses, "Get the kid out, Jack…he won't last after I'm gone."

"And you?" I ask, "What should I do?"

"Don't come back." He says, "I don't want to see your sorry fat ass when I have too many tubes down my throat to joke." He grins, "When I'm gone…is the old church there still?" I nod… I can't say anything, thinking about the way my brother protected me. He gets an even bigger grin, "Go get a cigar—a _good_ cigar, and smoke it in front of the church…especially if it has one of those damn fool no smoking signs." I grin, half heartedly.

"Tom…I'm sorry."

"For what?" He said, "Little brother, I was the bruiser…but I've kept track of you as much as I could. You've done good work…" He laughs, "and you're gonna do more before you go." He looks around at the prison, and smiles, "Besides, this ain't no place for some senile old fool who needs a wheelchair, and if I get too decrepit, they might just kick me out…hell, after 45 years I don't even know if I could figure a phone out! Like it or not…this is home and this is the way it should be." He grips my shoulder.

"See you big brother." I say, and he nods.

"And you too." He grins, "See?" he says, "You said there's no such thing as fate—I just figured somebody might turn up to help the kid, and it turns out to be you." I nod, turn and walk away. When I get to the exit, I turn around and see him strolling inside the building…and I fix that in my mind. The last time I'll see my big brother.

* * *

_Kim._

When Jack gets back, he's awfully quiet for a few minutes, and I can't get anything out of them. Then he opens up an old cigarette case that looks like it was made from a tin can and takes ten hand rolled cigarettes out of it…and unrolls them.

"Son of a bitch." He whispers, and than laughs, "Son of a bitch!"

"What is it?" I ask.

"This is a record of when your buddy was being taken out of the jail…and they do it on a schedule!"

"He knew?" I asked.

"Trust me, Tom always knew… when it counted." Jack's looking a little misty eyed, and I'm curious…but he doesn't offer and I don't ask.

"So what does it mean?" I say.

"It means that in 12 hours, your friend is going to be out of the jail, in a car with only two guards…" He says to me. Then he gets a big grin.

"How are you on jailbreaks?"

"I thought you sai-" He cuts me off.

"I said making a jail break out of supermax was crazy… and Kid, new information—your friend isn't safe in jail. Not at all. I about a month, maybe two…he's gonna be dead." I gasp and feel myself going cold.

"Why?" I ask.

"Maybe they figured he knew where you were…" He says, and I shake my head.

"Not about that…why are they going to kill him?"

"Because he knows too much? Because even if he's there fifty years, someday someone might find out something?" Jack shrugs, "Dead men tell no tales and well, once his…protector is gone, he's a dead man." I look at him.

"So we get him."

"Right…and once we do that, Kid… it's all on the line—if we don't find anything, well then, we're crooks…and they will find us sooner or later." He looks at me. "Last chance—you could probably get out of the country, find a better job, maybe even get to school." I look down at the table and back up at him.

"And all I have to do is leave Ron…again. Only this time I know I could help him." I shake my head. "No. Let's do this."

To be continued.


End file.
